


He Thinks

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Drama, Interspecies, Multi, Multiple Partners, Points of View, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26256418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: By Inverni.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Merry Brandybuck/Pippin Took
Kudos: 4
Collections: Least Expected





	He Thinks

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, Tolkien's.  
>  Story Notes: For Ailei- because this seemed a better way to awnser Mess. 10092 on the hpslash list (waaay back) than with a "Hell, yeah!". Also, for TS and HL, who showed me the light so long ago. Many thanks to Salina for the most wonderful beta.

"You only love me for my hair!" he playfully accuses them, gesturing to his beard and all the while caressing soft curls at the top of weary halfling feet. Laughter is his only anwser -their eyes twinkle when they can tell they are making him happy- and he continues, "Next thing I know, you will turn your eyes to Master Dwarf, over there..." 

The Company had taken a respite on the long way to the mountains, and after an exhausting journey, they had made camp in the vicinity of a small stream. This would mean a refreshing bath before continuing their journey with first light the following day - a fact that was much appreciated by everyone. 

Now the three of them are on guard duty while everyone frolicks near the water. Gandalf has started a splashing war and is holding his own against Aragorn and the other two halflings. Legolas is half submerged in the shallow water, brushing his newly-washed hair and indulgently watching the wizard's antics. Gimli sits some way apart upon the shore. 

Pippin smiles mischievously and says, "Well, Bilbo always said that dwarves were a strange folk, but true and kind, did he not, Merry?" 

"Yes, but I seem to fail to remember him saying anything about their strange fascination with blond elves..." Merry replies. 

More giggles, then, and Boromir has to muffle his laugh on a convenient shoulder -he does not want to cause offense to any of his comrades- before continuing, smiling mischevously and barely masking need and still-there doubts behind jest: 

"So you are not denying it! You would throw away my most devoted affection, just for a being with more hai--" 

He never finishes that sentence, being busy with two soft little mouths covering his face with tiny kisses and endearements, among much laughter and tickling. He knows they are still in wonder of his greater strenght, so he surrounds them with long limbs, gets to his feet anf lifts them with little effort, just to show he can. They shriek and laugh harder, and still look at him trusthingly, even when Frodo dares him to drop them in the river. He carefully puts them down, instead. In the twilight, Pippin's eyes are all the brighter, and Merry's hair shines coppery, both intensely masculine and beautiful, both full of life and light. He recieves a peck on each cheek, hot and decisive from Merry, sloppy and wet from Pippin. Both are equally charming, and he takes a second to enjoy the sweet smell of their hair, in a moment of weakness he can't control, before resuming his watch. 

Later, lying under the stars with the soft bundle of them cuddling on top of his chest ("For warmth" they always say, but he knows the others can't be fooled and Samwise has already given him what the Hobbits call a 'Talk') he wonders what the price will be for such terrible happiness, that -he is sure- no Man has felt before him... 

* * *

Caradhras.  
Covering himself with their warmth and covering them with as much of his heavy cape as he can, Boromir stumbles slowly in their route to the pass over the mountain. He keeps sight of Aragorn's dark shape in front of him, careful not tp get lost in the storm and mindful of the two precious burdens he carries. He also keeps a weary eye on them, smiling amidst his worry when he sees their tightly closed eyes and their linked hands, gripping with all their combined might the front of his shirt. 

One night when they were new to their special closeness, feeling still the sweet weight of Pippin on his back and tracing sticky patterns on Merry's thigh, the Man was treated to a partial reckoning of the intricances of the Brandybuck-Took family trees, complete with scandals and loyalties. He decided then that Hobbits were the most complicated yet sensible race of all, and he has yet to be proven wrong. 

They fascinate him. Their power over him is both scary and exhilarating, even when faced with the need to protect them, as in this painful climb. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could keep them safe and hidden, away from all the sorrows he is sure the Fellowship is going to endure; and yet, he cannot but profoundly respect their bravery in wanting to stand by their kinsman. 

He suddenly has a vision of his mother, fair hair loose and flowing, singing by the window, so long ago, so far away. 

* * *

It is always so sweet, so incredibly gentle... 

"Ah! Boromir!"  
"Yes!"  
"...Oh- oh! There!"  
"...so tight, so _delicious_..."  
"yesyesyesyes"  
"ah-...aaah!"  
"Merry!"  
"...yes, love, yes..." 

They are always quiet, with only the softest of moans and breathy cries, with whispered murmurs of his name, and even when their need is greater, their desperate encouragements are easierly felt against his skin than heard. He sometimes wonders about this, but then remembers life in his father's House, and doesn't ask. And in times like these, when the three of them have barely recovered and lie gasping for air, when he can -more often than not- mark his seed dripping slowly between the legs of their oh-so-welcoming bodies... Lady, he wants to forget his Duty, his family, his whole cursed _everything_ , and just spend his life giving thanks for this incredible way he has been blessed. He closes his eyes, sighs, accepts his fate a second later. He is a son of Gondor, his father's first-born, and he is sworn to his people and his City. But firstHe opens his eyes, lashes slowly fluttering to behold the dual beauty that now looks sleepily, deliriously happy, at him. He smiles, all the _love_ he can possibly fit in one expression just for them, only for _them_. 

"Yours," he says, bending down to lick them clean... 

The long night of Moria, though it demands much caution, has only given the Man of Gondor bliss and the echoes of sweet moans, yet. 

* * *

"Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time, and rid us of your stupidity!" Boromir's hand clenches convulsively on Gimli's shoulder, startling the dwarf as much as the sudden sound of a thousand drums coming from the deep a moment later. The striken face of Pippin hits the big Man like an ice dagger through the gut, and he fights for an instant the urge to engulf the little one in his arms and comfort all the shame and fear away. A heartbeat later, as always, the reality of Pippin's actual age ("I'm a grown Hobbit!") and their bleak environment kicks in, and more urgent matters divert his attention to the menace coming to them. After barricading the door, a quick glance reassures him of the relative safety of his charges. The four Hobbits are standing, weapons drawn (and doesn't he feel a twinge of pride seeing Meriadoc and Peregrin mantaining perfectly the defense position he taught them only a few days ago?) and behind Gandalf, arguably the most powerful in the Company. A slow breath, then, and he has a second to concentrate on the upcoming fight before orcs come swarming through the door and his sword arm is moving... 

* * *

...and with a crack the arrow almost hits their feet, only to fall to the abyss between the broken sections of the bridge. Merry's hand clasps his nervously then, andHe _smiles_ at him.  
A quick, trembling smile, that in a second says 'do not be afraid' and 'you are strong' and 'if we are to die here, I want you to know...' He does not have to think before he puts his arms around them, tightly, and _jumps_... 

* * *

He has spent the better part of the morning before arriving in Lothorien trying to lessen the grief both Meriadoc and Peregrin feel over the loss of Gandalf. He will truly miss the Wizard, fallen bravely, wise and always full of wit, and his own muted grief is there; but as with everything, emotions burn with tenfold passion when it involves his Little Ones. 

He has never been one to speak of comfort openly. 

He doesn't know how. 

He tries anyway. 

* * *

"He looks to me to make things right and I... I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored." 

Boromir now knows, in the deep recesses of his heart, that Aragorn is King. Where some part of his mind refuses to consider the implications of this with regard to his Father, he finds the calling of the Ranger's nobility and kingly spirit impossible to resist. He is most grateful for the chance to expose his doubt and fears for his City to a fellow Man, one that can understand the burdens of responsibility and can offer the comfort only an experienced warrior can give another. In conversation, he decides he likes this Man, he could follow him, he trusts him. This expedition has become an unending source of wonder, he thinks, once again lovingly picturing in his mind's eye his two favorite people. 

* * *

Merry always giggles and wiggles when Boromir's beard thouches him, and though at first the Man was worried about chafing such delicate skin, he was rapidly convinced -by the expedient but treacherous way of tickling- that these attentions were welcome, and that the older of his Hobbits just _loves_ the sweet rasp of it against his nipples. Such tasty little nipples... 

"Hold me, beloved."  
"ooh, Pip..."  
"Steady now, little one. I do not wish to give you any discomfort... Lady, you're so _hot_..." 

Being held tightly by his cousin, Pippin willingly spreads his legs as far apart as he can get them, trembling slightly as one, then two, of the Man's thick fingers slowly enter him. The sight is enthralling, and Boromir has to remind himself to continue breathing when the fire in his loins suddenly overcomes mind and body, and his balls, large and heavy already, threaten to spill their precious fluid untimely. 

"Are you well, dearest? Is it too much?" he asks in a raw whisper, worried features reflecting the internal battle between need and concern. 

"Yes... both of you... don't stop!" 

"Such greediness... tsk, tsk. What would the folks back in the Shire say?" teases Merry, mischief showing in his eyes and a hand slowly pumping his cousin's cock. 

The Man removes his fingers then, and before a single moan of protest can be uttered, replaces them with his toungue- a wet but equally intense invader- plunging deep into the trembling body and allowing him to sense the swift tensing that announces climax, even before he hears the soft but desperate sobbing. A determined little mouth is on him a second later, and when Merry lightly traces his cock's weeping slit, the river of his passion cascades forcefully and mercilessly, leaving him feeling replete and deliciously weak. 

Merry, the first in reaching satiation tonight, kisses and pets as they recover. He caresses back, making careful note of the silence in their private space, only broken when a moment later wispers in three different voices murmur of love and- 

"You two are so- beautiful...!" said with trepidation still. 

"...and you a poor, sweet, deluded Man..." 

"Love you..." 

"We do, too." 

Infinitely sweet kisses, then, and an instant of distraction is all Boromir needs to playfully take over and engulf both of them within his mouth, to the music of their gasps of surprise and pleasure... 

"Mine!" he growls afterwards, triumphant, only to receive twin nods and adoring looks. 

He envelops his beloveds in a hug, ready to go back closer to the Fellowship's camp and sleep with the others. 

* * *

Lulled by the smoothness of the river and the quiet, rythmic breathing of his Little Ones asleep, Boromir decides to try and indulge in daydreaming. His body mechanicaly continues with the rowing that pushes their boat forth, and his eyes stubbornly keep alert. 

Could he bring them to his City? Would they go with him? 

They would like it, he decides finally, after carefully considering its colors in the sunset light, and the supply of apples from the surrounding villages, and the many hidden fountains in its otherwise ordained streets. 

For a minute, he even allows himself to think of his huge bed in the room that is his in Denethor's home. He has seldom used it, -Steward's son or not, he is a warrior, and often sleeps in the field with the others- but then, he never had a reason as good as _them_ before. His mind wanders and basks in a delightful fantasy of what it would be like to wake up with the sounds of the White City's trumpets, while a single ray of morning sunlight graces the sleeping, sated faces of his beautiful lovers, all three of them snuggling beneath heavy covers, rumpled and stained with the evidence of their nightly pleasure. But- 

What would happen?  
What would his brother say? What -and he almost trembles here, he that has seldom know real fear before- would his father say? Faramir has always been a most excellent brother, and he loves him. While no doubt surprised ("Are not Halflings the matter of legend? And TWO of them?" he can almost see him smirking now), his younger brother can see into people's hearts, and would pose no objection in his being content, even when asking for the appropiate discretion in the same breath. Father, on the other hand... Boromir can't even bear to think of his reaction. For all his claims of loving his older son, Denethor is a stern man, and not completely devoid of cruelty, as his treatment of Boromir's beloved younger brother gives testimony. And he is, after all, still waiting for an heir to continue their line. Father has been unusually patient this far into his manhood, but when Darkness is defeated, Boromir's freedom will have to be over. 

AfterStealthy   
and quick, a treacherous thought intrudes into his mind, never to abandon him again: What if-- what if he leaves, when all is over? What if he leaves, with _them_? 

No, no, that would be madness!  
Umbecoming of a warrior, umbecoming of the heir to the Stewardship, the coward's way out! No, NO. 

He promises to remind himself of his duty every time one of their beautiful faces intrudes into his thoughts; but he knows, deep in his heart, that it is too late already. He is foolishly, passionately in love.  
In _love_ , and stars above, it feels so wonderful, so incredibly better than anything he has know in all his years... 

Can he not hope for peace and love after a life devoted to War and Duty? They are _his_ , he will NOT let them go! 

He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment, only to open them to the majestic view of the Argonath in the distance. He wakes Meriadoc and Peregrin with soft croons and receives brilliant smiles in payment for the small kindness. What is to become of his City, of Him, of Them? He decides to concentrate on this day, to leave Fate to others wiser than himself, and to see that this Company succeeds in its mission. When _they_ look at him, he feels he can do anything. 

On the other hand, he is feeling the pull of the Ring more, these days, whispering in his mind of having everything he has ever desired. Everything... Aragorn signals for them to come to shore, and with a long shiver he complies and gets out of their boat. 

* * *

An arrow, and he is driven to his knees by the force of it piercing his chest. 

"-love you" he mouths at them, and he hopes they can hear him, for he cannot. He turns around with much effort, and a growl. How dare these cursed, thrice damnned darkness' spawns think of _touching_ them...! ...  
A second arrow.   
...  
And now breathing is a task as difficult as keepping his eyes open... ...  
And for a second he wishes he couldn't keep them open, for now he knows they are being carried away (no, no please, no) and the surety of their torment is going to follow him and torment him in turn into whatever kind of afterlife a worthless Man -as he has proven to be- deserves. ...  
He cannot die. He will not* leave them. He...  
He cannDespair.


End file.
